


Note by Note

by midnightflame



Series: As Human as We Are [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But it's a cute sort of mess, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mention of pregnancy, Morning Cuddles, Morning Routines, Music, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: Keith reflects on the routine of his life with Shiro, only to find that life comes with a variety of surpises





	

**Author's Note:**

> I always wondered if I would ever actually get around to writing this out for them but then an idea struck and I couldn't get it out. So, here it is! 
> 
> And the starting song is "L'origine nascosta" by Ludovico Einaudi, and it ends with Divenire, which should make some decent sense for those of you who followed Seasons!

It’s funny how mornings find their routines. Spend enough time and the habits carve themselves out of your character, one by one, until they’re nothing more than intrinsic to the life you’ve created. Keith remembers thinking at the start of it all, little things like how Shiro brewed his coffee. Things like that always seemed terribly important, these small but horrifying bits of a life you were trying to learn. The sort of thing you needed to _get right_ , or so something would inevitably whisper from the back of the mind because there was never enough fear present and Keith understood the fear of loss like he knew the lyrics to every one of his songs. The coffee was always a little bit stronger than he personally cared for, but to battle the monster that early mornings tended to be for Shiro, he had come to learn the necessity of coffee bold enough to shake a soul awake. The recommendation for Shiro’s favorite blend was always two level scoops – Shiro dutifully ignored that and consistently added three for his six AM wake-up calls. 

By six-thirty, Shiro would be standing in the kitchen, back pressed to the counter, a second cup in his hand and something like life starting to flood back into his eyes. Though, honestly speaking, it was always the moment Keith walked in that the fire started to leap in Shiro’s gaze and the corner of his lips would curl in the prelude to a smile. Those things were routine too, and Keith had found himself quite fond of it all, right down to the way Shiro would drape himself across his back while he tried to pull one cereal box or another down from the cabinet and muttered that Shiro was too much weight for a man to be carrying that early in the morning.

Shiro never failed to laugh each and every time, peeling himself away with a kiss to his temple and telling him he would find a better place to put his bulk. It was always invariably Keith’s favorite chair, the one right by the window in their kitchen nook with the songbird blue cushion, the one Shiro only relinquished with a smile or a kiss or some lame joke that dragged the red to Keith’s cheeks and a groan from his lips. With the toll paid, he would drop into his chair with a roll of his eyes, going on about how wonderfully stupid Shiro was, how lucky he was that he loved him because a lesser man might have gotten a mouthful of something far less pleasant instead.

Today, however, Keith is standing in the kitchen alone, and the clock is telling him it’s twenty-three minutes past nine, and he knows that Shiro is about to come ambling in at any second. He had left him in bed forty-five minutes ago, which would have been closer to an hour only Shiro had had enough of awake in him to drag Keith back beneath the sheets to create a tangle of limbs and heartbeats. It was only after a few lazy kisses to the nape of his neck and the promise of breakfast that Shiro had granted Keith his freedom with a smile that was of the impossibly cute sleep-doused variety.

That smile got Keith every time, and it made him wonder how a heart could still fall for the same silly traps over and over again. Like it had no care for its honest well-being. All banged-up with a few scuff marks and a bit of blood from tripping over itself, but held out for the offering regardless and delighting in the taking again and again.

And Shiro held his heart with such fondness that it made Keith ache to think that this man could be his and his alone. 

_I have been yours. . .for a very long time now._

Those words rouse like a sleep-walker, padding softly across his mind, and Keith denies the blush that wants to blare in vibrant red across his cheeks in response. Tries to at least. So, he focuses on the task at hand, leveling out the second scoop of coffee grounds and dumping it into the filter. A snap shut and the press of a button later has the water gurgling to life inside the machine. 

“You must be thinking something good. . .”

The fight is lost the second those words come rolling out of Shiro’s mouth like a luxury he has every right to indulge in, and there is nothing Keith can do to stop the pink from suffusing hot across his skin. Shiro has settled himself against the wall, arms folded across bare chest, sweatpants hanging low as usual (they’re a steel grey now, having been replaced several months ago on his birthday when Keith had finally convinced him to toss his old college ones out), and sleep still clinging to his features, turning them soft in all the ways that make Keith want him. However, there had been words spoken that needed an appropriate response, so he tosses a mock glare at the man making a study of him and finds that he could all but die at the way Shiro’s lips start to pull into a smile in return. 

The sort of smile that says it all – Keith had been caught and called out, and there is no denying the simple truth of that matter.

But rather than dig this particular hole any deeper, Keith turns back to the countertop where he starts dropping several spoonfuls of sugar into the mug designated his. Lance had bought it for him last Christmas, grinning like he never missed a beat, and Keith had simply stared down at the line-drawn cat flipping him off, _Meow motherfucker_ scribbled over its head like some obscene rainbow. Shiro had almost choked on a laugh and vowed never to drink from it.

He had wanted to call it a gag gift. It hadn't been. 

Keith glances over briefly when Shiro pushes himself from the wall. Routine tells him everything that will happen next, and Shiro isn’t one to disappoint. The moment arms slide around his waist, Keith grants himself the right to lean back against Shiro’s chest, tipping his head up to press a kiss light to his chin. 

“Morning to you too. . .”

A soft snort greets that, blown out warm against Keith’s temple. “Morning, sunshine.”

And that one has Keith biting back a laugh because Shiro consistently insists on throwing the worst terms of affection at him. Like he somehow finds the stark contrast an undeniable temptation, even if Keith has long lost the knee-jerk responses to them. Instead, he simply cants his head and nips at Shiro’s jawline.

“Try calling me that again.”

“Sunshine,” Shiro shoots right back, finger on the trigger with no remorse. 

And Keith wants to take aim at Shiro’s gut, but he knows he wrote his name on that last bullet, so he simply reaches out and plops the next load of sugar down into Shiro’s cup. Behind him, Shiro grunts with mild displeasure.

“You play dirty,” he murmurs.

“So do you.” 

The reminder is given with a roll of his hips back against Shiro’s groin, and there is nothing but laughter spilling warm as liquid sunshine against his ear. Keith is laughing seconds later as Shiro presses his lips firmly against the side of his neck.

“You don’t need to go in at all?”

Shiro hums out low against skin, fingers sliding beneath the hem of Keith’s T-shirt. “They’re looking over the designs today, so no need for me to be there.”

“They’ll like them. . .they always like what you build,” Keith says, full of quiet reassurance.

Another hum, another kiss.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working out the details for the tour this morning?”

Coffee starts to drip-drop its way into the pot, and Keith watches as it begins to fill, turning over his thoughts like skipping stones. Trying to find the one that will get him the farthest with the least effort. He exhales softly, sinks back against Shiro further and shuts his eyes.

“Pidge is pregnant.”

Tension puts a sudden rigidity into Shiro’s body, and the mere act of it has Keith’s mouth courting a frown. He inhales deeply.

“So, we’re going to have to revise our plans. . .” he continues, cautious. Shiro says nothing, only breathes out, one single harsh release, against the side of his neck. Silence threatens to drown them both in the following moment. And then. . .a thought claps loud in Keith’s head and it leaves him pulling the air in through his teeth. “Hunk doesn’t know yet, does he?”

A slow shake of a head that has Shiro’s bangs tickling against skin and forcing Keith to shift his head. 

“When did she tell all of you?”

“Last night. She didn’t want to spring it on us at the meeting today.”

One after another, Keith can feel Shiro’s muscles easing once more until he’s nothing but a body pliable, ready to be made beneath another’s hands. Keith reaches up and runs his fingers up the back of Shiro’s neck. The arms around him tighten.

“Hunk’s going to be a dad. . .”

Keith nods gently. And when Shiro’s mouth moves again, he can trace its route over his skin as nerves flare to life, sparking like stars as they define constellations, every ounce of him acutely aware of so much that is Shiro in these moments. It’s not simply a smile making itself known; it’s a grin, with lips parting and laughter glossing Shiro’s next few breaths.

“Do you know how happy he’s going to be?”

There’s a warmth in Shiro’s voice that Keith doesn’t recognize. Not entirely. It’s something deeper, more innate to all the good a man thinks he can create, spiked with wonder and a joy that doesn’t celebrate the self but simply life in its entirety. And it makes Keith ache in a way he’s never had to consider before, to think that Shiro could still pull more out of himself, to think that Keith could still want more for _them_.

“Yeah. . .”

Makes him think routine has its place, wonderful as it is, but that there’s something magnificent about the depth of the man standing behind him, capable of surprises and reminding Keith that you can fall in love with someone all over again for something as simple as a grin.

*

The melody is soft, notes trembling as they hit the air. A pause follows, lulling his next breath to stillness. On the exhale, the next spill of sound arrives, gentle as the moonlight filtering in through the windows. And for a minute that tries to write itself as eternity, Keith is left standing there, watching silent as Shiro continues to play, consumed by the workings of his fingers.

He recognizes the song, not one often played, but part of Shiro’s repertoire nonetheless. And like the man itself, it embodies the quiet existence of a soul that carries its scars without remorse and all the promise of a heart that persists despite the worst it has known of the world. It reminds Keith of winter’s dying days, when warmth steals the wind’s bitterness and offers it something softer, something worth calling to the earth for, to remind her that life still exists and that she should bloom with abandon. 

“Are you going to watch me all night?”

Keith can see the smile as it curves Shiro’s mouth. A mere flick of a glance is thrown in his direction before Shiro is looking back down at the keys once more, fingers working through the song with that same ease of memory Keith has always known to define Shiro's playing. 

But he knows the hint when it’s been given, and with only a soft huff of laughter, Keith strides into the room. Then he stops, sudden as a summer's storm, only feet away from the piano. The breath balls up in his throat; his gaze darts right back to Shiro.

Only Shiro says nothing. Just looks at him, with that small bit of smile wavering over his lips and his chest rising sharply when he realizes that Keith has seen it. And something like fear passes through the grey of his eyes, thunderclouds on the horizon threatening to consume his world. When he exhales, the sound shakes over his lips, as if there is no part of him left untouched by the quaking of his soul at that moment. Keith takes a step closer and gingerly pushes at the blank pages of sheet music set on top of the piano.

Shiro clears his throat. Fingers seamlessly start the song over again, not a single note lost to the transition.

“I know some things are ending for you,” he begins, his voice low, strained. Shiro breathes out before continuing, gathering himself as he lets the next few notes consume the silence in between. “And I know that you’re going to be great when you finally take that next step. But for the time being, I thought that we could start writing something together. . .”

Keith doesn’t know this brand of fear putting its stamp to Shiro’s words. It’s cautious, soft-spoken, one that has never before touched Shiro's voice. The sort of fear that rides on hope, and Keith imagines that to be the most devastating kind. His gaze drops to the sheets of music again, pristine in their white and their lines neatly set, just waiting for someone to make something of them. That's the thing he's always loved about these sheets - crafting something out of nothing, and you could scratch out and rewrite, and still somehow by the end there would be a song complete. Something from his hands, something all his own, with every mistake and broken thought. Every bit of music that got itself right. But these are the sheets Shiro provided him, and sitting in the space where a title should belong, a ring waits patiently. A single thick chrome band with a strip of onyx encircling its center, gleaming as smooth and silvered as the piano's surface beneath the moonlight.

“How long have you been in here, Shiro?” he asks, curiosity coloring his words bright. Keith has an idea, but he wants the confirmation. 

“I’m not sure exactly.” Shiro laughs, more to himself it seems. Amused by his own fallibility, perhaps. According to Shiro, his whole history is littered with mistakes, at least right up until the moment he admitted to Keith he loved him, that he had always loved him. And maybe there were a few more after that, but he continually insisted those were easier to swallow because he didn’t always make them alone. Because with Keith by his side, even the terrible in life seemed a little more manageable. “I spent part of the time cleaning up the place, but there’s only so much laundry to fold and places to sweep. . .I’d always end up coming back here.”

He glances up at Keith, like a man knowing he might have so little to offer, nothing more than a heart and really what’s the worth in that except perhaps for everything that has ever been right and good in a man. Laughter claims him again, breaking a little as it dwindles down to a sigh. And all the while his fingers continue to move through the song, again and again, telling Keith about the very origins of what made his heart beat.

“But nothing really took the shake out of my hands until I started playing. . .”

Keith turns the ring over again, holding it up so the light from the hallway catches the inner aspects of it. Inscribed are the same notes he has tattooed over the underside of his right wrist, and as the recognition twists Keith’s heart, turning each beat torturous, as it stirs up his feelings until his gaze is a hazy mix of blue-grey gone purple, the song shifts, quiet and subtle.

He nearly chokes on the next breath. Curling his fingers around the ring, Keith turns his gaze and every bit of wretched emotion pulled to the very forefront of him on Shiro. 

“Do you have any idea how you’re looking at me right now?”

Keith can feel the grin forming because he knows those words, and he knows this song, and he knows this man, and there is nothing of him that doesn’t belong here.

“Yes. . .” Laughter coats his words, but it’s the sudden uprising of tears that put the strain of joy into them. “My answer is yes, Takashi.”


End file.
